


A Soldier's Cradle

by Averia



Series: Your Heart, My Hands [2]
Category: Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 16:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17186054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Averia/pseuds/Averia
Summary: There is gravel under this mercenary's skin.





	A Soldier's Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> A little pain, now that Christmas is over.
> 
> Roll mouse over symbol for Trigger Warnings:  
>  !

There is a weight on his chest, tension pushing him down. Something threatening stands in front of him in the darkness, something he cannot discern. His eyes are failing him. It is an impending doom Slade has not felt for years. The black void holds him hostage, - forever squinting, forever waiting - as he loses himself in time. Frozen. Breathless.  
  
His muscles won't move until they do.  
  
And when they do he strikes deadly.  
  
The move is familiar. Two hands around his target's throat. His knees grind down between the bones of strong legs to pin his target to the ground and to distract with the pain. Instinct does not let the man underneath him react the right way. One hand busy to move what cannot be and the other reaching out but never reaching him.  
  
Slade's gut feels like a bottomless void. For a moment all that counts is the tension in his arms, the flesh underneath his fingertips. It elevates him, makes him bare his teeth.  
  
When he kills, he kills in calmness but this is instinctual. The cold dark violence curling underneath his skin every hour of his life has found an outlet. A tiny bit more and he will be able to feel the spine give way underneath the force of his fingertips, his palms crushing the vulnerable trachea. A tiny bit more and those lips will stop moving, the struggle will cease to numbness and the blue, blue, blue, blue, blue  
  
His breath hitches, his fingers twitch lose but the tension remains.  
  
Fingertips press into his wrists. Blood is pouring down under his good eye, skin ripped by harsh biting nails. The hand reached him after all.  
  
Lips move.  
  
All he can think about is that they do not, that they are frozen - his name nothing but an eternal plea for mercy - while dull eyes stare up at the ceiling.  
  
Dick grows cold and unyielding beneath his grasp.  
  
He prides himself for his control, knows why he keeps it. And still, this happened.  
  
When he comes back, really comes back, Dick has pushed back against the headboard, his eyes brimming with pain while his body curls in on himself, arms crossed over his chest and half of his face. His breathing sounds wrong. It cracks and sizzles in his throat like firewood.  
  
He reaches out fingertips brushing over the damage they have caused while Dick holds his breath.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
His voice is smooth, sturdy as a tree. Deep down he is scared.  
  
And Dick knows. His eyes soften, fingers trailing over the back of his hand to coax him closer.  
  
If their roles were reversed he would do the same, would wait for Dick to curl up against him and listen to the whispered apologies. Because he knows if Dick chooses to run, he never returns.  
  
"I'll be downstairs," he says as he pulls his hand away from the reassuring touch and the inflamed skin, "You can have the bed."  
  
Dick bites his tongue, swallows his words.  
  
Downstairs he fills a glass with whiskey to the brim, feels the familiar burn down his throat. But it is not enough, it never is.  
  
The glass cracks, white lines expanding further and further until it breaks. Shards stick out of his mangled hand, blood drip-drops down to the ground.  
  
His anger spikes like the roar of a lion, vision bleeding red and with a deep breath, he wrestles it down.  
  
He has killed a lot of people, has made their death merciful or cruel depending on the situation and he has hurt people he loves, all of them.  
  
A lifetime ago Adeline woke up to his hands around her throat more than once but without the serum turning him into an unstoppable force and his ex-wife's tendency to store a gun or a knife in reach, she got him off easily.  
  
People see him and believe they know who he is, believe him to be capable of killing and maiming anyone but he has never raised his hand against his family. He never hit his children. Never hit Adeline - expect when she wanted him to. His vices are the danger to the ones he loves, not his hands.  
  
His bloodied ring finger plays with one of the shards sticking through his palm, his good hand holding the phone to his ear. The slippery glass gives way to his probing just like Dick's spine would have. A shaky breath escapes from his lips and that is what prompts Wintergreen to talk.  
  
"Afghanistan?"  
  
Slade huffs, watches the last shard slide out of his skin, leaving behind a tainted but healed hand.  
  
"Who knows," he replies, single eye focusing on the ceiling and he brushes the eye patch away. It feels restricting, the skin underneath heated and irritable in a way it cannot be. In his dream, his sight had been broader.  
  
"Slade," Wintergreen sighs, probably sitting down, probably getting a drink as well.  
  
He ignores the prompt to talk, his ears straining to hear the sound of a heartbeat not his own. His fingers bite into the cushions of the couch when his enhanced senses fail, leaving a red trail behind.  
  
"Would you like me to visit tomorrow?" Wintergreen's words fade into the silence of his home and he craves to return upstairs but he fears to find their bedroom empty, void of the life he nearly took.  
  
None of the people he loves ever forgive him even if they start out wanting to (Just look at Joey, sweet little Joey, secretly his favorite son).  
  
"I am sure Dick will appreciate your expertise," is his answer, disregarding the concern for his well being.  
  
Wintergreen does not react right away and Slade steels himself for a long night full of pauses and heavy words.  
  
It is better than the silence.  
  
He wakes slowly, the smell of bacon and eggs wafting into the living room from the kitchen. For a moment he remains, his limbs too heavy but then he forces himself to stand, to move towards the smell, gait mechanic.  
  
The bruise around Dick's throat is blooming in a deep blue and he stays put in the doorway when he can feel the curve of the breakable bones etch into his fingertips once more - a rattling last breath echoing in his ears.  
  
Dick looks up, pan sizzling in front of him. The smile on his lips is hopeful.  
  
"Good morning, Slade."  
  
Talking very clearly hurts, the sound not coming out just right.  
  
Dick does not shy away from his kiss. The soft lips are warm and familiar underneath his.  
  
"Good morning," he whispers and pulls him closer, right arm slung around Dick's waist. "Any plans for today?"  
  
Dick shakes his head.  
  
The silence brings him back to the first days of Joey's recovery, to plates shattering right beside his head during their dinners until Adeline had enough and pulled her gun.  
  
He does not realize how bruising his grip is turning until Dick gently pries his hands from his body, fingers interlacing with his own. The dried blood caking his hand rubs off against the tanned skin as tiny red flakes.  
  
Eventually, Dick will leave just like Adeline did, electric blue spitting in anger.  
  
"It's mine," he promises. His voice is quiet, feeble even. Dick steals a glance down, a sigh falling from his lips that sounds too guttural, vibrates in his throat as if his vocal cords have no strength left.  
  
Slade looks away, watches the eggs set.  
  
Dick settles a kiss to his cheekbone, then to his temple before he nuzzles against his skin, completely in his blind spot and closer to his most prominent scar than he lets anyone else.  
  
If Dick decided to plunge a knife into his back now, he would not even flinch, would welcome the taste of copper on his tongue and the thick liquid pushing past his lips.  
  
With his arm around the narrow waist, he presses the young hero closer. He breathes in the scent of his shampoo, relishes in the heat of his body and listens to the steady heartbeat so close to his own.


End file.
